


To Tame a Kitten (is to love)

by tsauergrass



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Animagus, Animagus Draco Malfoy, Animal Foster Parent Harry Potter, Cat Person Harry Potter, Cats, Curses, Fluff, H/D Fan Fair 2019, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry Potter Has Nightmares, Harry Potter Has PTSD, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley Friendship, Humor, Implied/Referenced Animal Death, Kitten, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Pining Harry Draco, Post-Hogwarts, Secondary Theme: Pet Fair, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2020-12-09 15:14:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20996894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsauergrass/pseuds/tsauergrass
Summary: After the war, Harry finds solace in fostering orphaned kittens. One day, a kitten appears on his door step without explanation—andattackshim! Taking it in, he quickly finds that this kitten is nothing ordinary.“What?” Harry asks, bewildered. “What do you want?”The kitten meows loudly at a piece of layered meat.“Guanciale?” Joe seems surprised. “Oh. Italians use it to make…carbonara.”Harry looks disbelievingly at the kitten. It meows loudly again before it lowers its head, ready to plunge into the meat—“No!” Harry yelps and grabs hold of it, “Don’t—”Joe bursts into laughter. “You know what, I’ll give it to you for free. Can’t say no to a cat who wants to eat proper carbonara.”





	To Tame a Kitten (is to love)

**Author's Note:**

> For Prompt #[65](https://docs.google.com/document/d/16er_sVwwFtbVQxtiFqHRWhw09kwNYhywsB-R48qtVPU/edit#).
> 
> Many, many thanks to M, for being a phenomenal beta and leaving the loveliest and funniest comments. I had way more fun than I should have editing this work <3
> 
> Thank you for the mods for holding this fest!
> 
> At last, thank you, thank you, thank you to the prompter who submitted this lovely prompt. It clicked the moment I saw it and I had so much fun writing this! I hope you enjoy the story as much as I did!

In his dreams, the sunflowers are always vivid.

He has never been to a sunflower field before, but that hardly matters in his sleep. They are always in full bloom. Large, brown plates framed by bright egg yolk petals, each long and straight, spread to their fullest. Embracing the sky. Embracing the sun. The air is warm, the dark earth firm underneath his bare feet. The sun kisses him golden and tickles his nose. He closes his eyes, just to hold onto the moment a little longer—

Then he wakes.

He doesn’t know what it is about this dream that is so peculiar that he has it again, and again, and again. His unconsciousness trying to scream through his thick skull about the dullness of his life after the war? The brightness and fierceness buried deep in his soul struggling to surface? Maybe. Every time he wakes, the room is quieter than usual. If he listens, he feels as though he can hear the faintest sounds—but there are none. Only the quiet morning air. Only stillness, only a car driving down the road, the faint echo of tires crunching the asphalt at one moment and fading the very next. Its headlights illuminate a patch of light grey on the ceiling, flowing—flying, like a migrating bird—then disappearing without ever reaching the middle of the blank ceiling. Disappearing amidst nothingness.

He closes his eyes again.

***

Seven forty in the morning. Harry groggily blinks awake and grimaces at the foul taste in his mouth. Without his glasses, the blank ceiling is a blur. He closes his eyes briefly and feels the fading edge of sleep, warm and lulling.

He blindly reaches for his glasses, puts them on. Opens his eyes again.

The ceiling is still blank.

He gets up. Heads for a quick shower with cold water, even though summer is trailing towards its end. Pads to the kitchen for coffee, where the coffee machine sits banished to the corner. It was a gift from Ron and Hermione when he moved into his first flat. Much too enthusiastic, always thrumming this way or another, signalling the readied coffee with an exuberant _beep!_—much too energetic, hence the exile. He really is only keeping it for sentimental reasons.

The coffee is hot and bitter, just like usual. He grimaces just for the sake of grimacing. His skin warms against the coolness seeping into the late summer air, the first hint of autumn.

He feeds the kittens and cleans the litter. Some are still asleep, but the ones that are already awake greet him with enthusiastic meows and paws—with just a hint of claws—as they squirm among each other, trying to climb onto Harry’s legs. Harry smiles faintly, and then—_oh, who is he kidding,_ he grins as he scratches their ears and picks up the ones that have successfully conquered his thighs, placing them back into the litter. One tries to climb onto his arm instead. Harry winces at the claws and picks it up, placing it back among its siblings.

“Hungry, yes?” He slaps his legs and takes a deep breath, pushing himself up. “Wait a minute. Breakfast is coming.”

The kittens squirm to the shallow plate of food once Harry fills it. He sits back onto his heels and simply watches: a puddle of ever-flowing grey, orange and tabby marks, dotted with white ears and black tails. Their ears are still so tiny. Their paws, their noses, their chubby bodies—so tiny. They still feel like babies even though they will be ready for adoption in another day or two. He should start to put the signs up. His reputation is a lot of things, most of them bad, but for the kittens it’s of good use. So he uses it.

He scratches a kitten’s chubby bum and pushes himself up, walks to the door for post. Pigwidgeon, knowing the three of them for as long as it has, still has trouble finding the windows. His thoughts wander to whether he should cook kebab or carbonara tomorrow night as he grabs the doorknob and pushes the door open. Ron and Hermione visit every Saturday, and he does have chicken, but maybe if he—

The morning light blinds him. Before he registers anything, a flash of fur and claws lunges onto his face.

***

He carefully heals the cuts on his face, wincing as he does so. Peeks, from time to time, at the kitten guilty of the crime, who is now sitting on the counter and licking its tiny paws.

Looking all innocent like an angel.

Harry sighs and straightens up. Though the kitten is dirty, sparse white fur knotted up with grime, it is graceful like no other kitten its size is. Harry walks over and reaches out—the kitten jumps, ready to hiss—and grabs a can of wet food from the cupboard above. Pops it open.

“Food?” he asks, gently pushing the can forward.

The kitten is apparently confused. It sniffs suspiciously at the can before it violently nudges it away, almost sending it to the floor. Harry stumbles as he catches the can. “Hey!”

The kitten meows loudly and turns its head away.

“Okay, fine.” Harry huffs, and reaches out to the cupboard for another flavour. “Try this one, then.”

Four cans later, Harry does not feel as fine about the issue as he initially did. The kitten has refused all of them with a single sniff, has—if a kitten can actually do so—glanced condescendingly first at the food and then at Harry, and has proceeded to push two of the cans off the table, spilling wet mush everywhere. Has attempted to escape while Harry cleaned up the mess, only to be stopped at the last minute and retorted by screaming and kicking as Harry picked it up.

“Relax! I’m trying to give you food!” Harry settles the kitten back onto the counter, trying to shout over its piercing meows. “Merlin.”

He turns and pops open his last resort. It is salmon and his most expensive brand, usually saved only for the last meal before his fostering kittens have to leave for their new, permanent homes. It is now this kitten’s first meal in this household. What a bad message that gives, but Harry’s head hurts too much for him to think.

The kitten suspiciously eyes the can of food, sniffs at it, and_—oh—_it starts to eat. First tiny munches, and then it starts to wolf down the food as if it had starved for days. There is a high chance it has. Harry chuckles sadly as he smoothes a hand down the kitten’s back, trying to gently comb through the knots in its dirty fur.

“Slow down, now,” he says, scratching behind the kitten’s ears. “No one’s rushing you.”

The kitten’s ears twitch. It is too busy eating and has no time for Harry.

Later, after the kitten has licked the can _and_ its own face clean—after Harry laughed at its chubby belly and it grumpily nipped at Harry’s hand—Harry brings it to the bathroom for a bath. The kitten clearly knows what Harry has in mind, because it starts screaming the moment they enter the bathroom. Harry tries to grab hold of it as it kicks him, claws unsheathed, and tries to climb over Harry’s shoulder.

“You’ll fall!” Harry shouts, frustrated, even though he knows that it will land on its paws.

He turns on the tap with difficulty, using only one hand as the other has a handful of kitten. The kitten manages to squeeze itself loose and falls onto the ground, but before Harry can even shout out, it finds Harry’s most expensive shampoo—gifted by Ginny as a joke after one of her international games—and drapes itself all over the bottle. Harry’s loud protest dies on his tongue. He cannot believe what he is seeing.

“No,” he says, soft with incredulity. “No, that’s mine.”

The kitten protests loudly and clings onto the bottle. Harry pries its tiny paws off, and has to use a charm to muffle his ears before the kitten deafens him with its screams. It relaxes, however, once it is placed under the thin, steady stream of warm water. Under Harry’s fingers as he rubs soap down its neck, down its back and thin body, working through the knots and loosening the fur.

Until Harry tries to clean its bum.

“Oh my—” Harry’s eyes burn as the kitten splashes soapy water onto his face. “What’s the problem with you? Everything was just fine!”

The kitten meows loudly and tries to cover its bum with its paws. Harry, however, insists on cleaning it thoroughly and ends up using a muffling charm for his ears for the rest of the shower.

The kitten is wrung out by the time Harry finally finishes. It lets Harry place it onto a towel without argument, lets Harry rub it dry. Faces Harry with its back as he looks for the hairdryer, won’t look at him as he plugs it in.

“Oh, come on.” Harry turns the hairdryer on. The air is warm and gentle as he starts to blow-dry the kitten, ruffling its fur with his fingers. “I was trying to give you a bath. You needed it. Come on.”

The kitten doesn’t spare him a glance. It does, however, finally relax under the steady flow of air, under Harry’s gentle fingers combing through its fur. The white coat looks thicker now that it is cleaned, fluffier. This is a very beautiful kitten indeed.

Harry tells it as much. The kitten yawns and slowly blinks as it lies down on the towel.

Harry smooths his fingers down the kitten’s back following the warm flow of air as it falls asleep.

***

“Do you want to go out?” Harry asks.

The kitten meows enthusiastically and scratches the door again.

Harry sighs. He has intended to go grocery shopping by himself. Some kittens don’t do well with all the noises outside: the bustling crowd, the dashing cars honking. He doesn’t like to have strangers come up to him, either, though he has to admit that it is odd and endearing that they come up, this time, not for Harry Potter but for a kitten.

“I don’t think you should,” Harry says, kneeling down. “It’s quite loud outside.”

The kitten meows again and scratches the door tentatively. Looks up. Those large eyes are as clear as a lake deep in the mountains. Its tiny ears twitch, and so do its tiny whiskers. And its tiny nose. It scratches at the door with its tiny paws again, meows softly. Looks up with those clear, large eyes…

“Ugh, fine,” Harry grumbles. He picks the kitten up and places it onto his shoulder. The kitten forcefully balances itself by claws and sheer will, but it isn’t any less encouraged as Harry steps out into the open street. It takes everything in as they go: the sunlight spilling through leaves, dancing on the pavement of the quiet alley. The birds chirping, the clouds floating, a man in a varsity jacket walking on the other side of the street with a handful of grocery bags. The edges of the thick foliage of trees, turning red and orange with the first hint of autumn as if dipped in paint, a half-finished artwork. The kitten climbs onto Harry’s head to meow loudly at the birds jumping through branches. Harry laughs.

The alley morphs into a busy road, and then into a bustling farmer’s market. Harry slows his pace to help the kitten maintain its balance, but the kitten has apparently mastered the art of it and bats away Harry’s hand every time he reaches up to help. They reach Joe, the butcher.

“Bacon again?” Joe asks, dusting his hands off his apron as he pushes himself up from a stool. They have known each other since Harry moved into this flat. He even knows Harry’s carbonara recipe.

“Yeah. Friends visiting tonight.”

“Let me guess. Carbonara?”

Harry laughs. “You know how my Saturdays go, Joe.”

Joe grins as he slices the bacon with practiced ease. He finishes, wipes his hands on his apron, and hands the brown paper bag to Harry—

The kitten nips Harry’s hand.

“Ouch!” Harry quickly retracts it before glaring at the kitten. “No. No biting. Bad kitten.”

Joe peeps over. “A new one?”

“Yeah. I mean, kind of.”

“Ah. Well.” Joe hands Harry the bag again. “Can do with some manners, then.”

The kitten, however, nips Harry’s hand again. Harry groans. The kitten keeps meowing, looking back and forth between the table full of meat and Harry.

“What?” Harry asks, bewildered. “What do you want?”

The kitten meows loudly at a piece of layered meat.

“Guanciale?” Joe seems surprised. “Oh. Italians use it to make…carbonara.”

Harry looks disbelievingly at the kitten. It meows loudly again before it lowers its head, ready to plunge into the meat—

“No!” Harry yelps and grabs hold of it, “Don’t—”

Joe bursts into laughter. “You know what, I’ll give it to you for free. Can’t say no to a cat who wants to eat proper carbonara.”

“Cats can’t eat carbonara,” Harry mutters. Joe clasps his shoulder with a grin.

***

“Oh, aren’t you lovely. Such a lovely little kitten. I’m sure you’ll find a great home…”

Harry exchanges a look with Ron, and they both shudder. Hermione coos over Crookshanks, yes, but seeing her coo over a litter of kittens is another story.

The kittens, having exhausted themselves over playtime in the afternoon, now sleep peacefully in their pen, all huddled up into a great heap of grey and ginger and brown and dotted white. Harry has already put up the adoption signs. In a few days, they will all be gone.

It is always bittersweet to watch them go.

“I know you’re making faces there,” Hermione says without pausing from her cooing, without even turning her head. “Just because I can’t see you doesn’t mean I don’t know you’re making faces.”

“We’re not making faces!” Ron argues.

“Of course you weren’t, Ronald.”

Ron makes another face and heads for the kitchen. He always makes tea for the three of them: Molly has taught him well in terms of household chores, and he makes the best tea. Why Harry is still the one responsible for dinner, Harry doesn’t know.

“Did the shelter assign you a new one?”

Harry turns. Ron, head tilted up, is looking at the white kitten. It is sitting on the cupboard and staring them down from great heights.

“Oh, no. It showed up on my doorstep.” _And scratched my face off._

“And you just took him in?”

“Should I not have?” Harry asks, bewildered.

Ron shrugs and heads into the kitchen. “Just asking, is all.”

With the ginger-head gone, the kitten loses interest and starts grooming.

Harry has been fostering kittens for years now. It started only as a part of his therapy, but now he cannot imagine his life without it. He had thought he would try out with dogs, what with Sirius being a giant black dog and all, but it had proved to be too much. In the end, he’d found solace in places he never thought he would.

Hermione, who was still cooing the litter of kittens a moment ago, has now appeared in front of her new target.

“Oh, I haven’t seen you!” she exclaims, holding out her hand for the kitten to sniff. “How are you? How is Harry’s flat?”

“It doesn’t understand you,” Ron calls from the kitchen.

“Oh, shut it, Ron.”

Harry laughs. The kitten tentatively sniffs her finger before jumping to a higher shelf and sitting down again, staring unblinkingly at them.

“Hermione,” Harry asks quietly. A little hopeful. “Have you seen Draco at work?”

Hermione’s face morphs into sadness. She squeezes Harry’s arm. “No, not really. Why?”

“He, um.” Harry swallows. It sounds foolish now. “He didn’t reply to my letter. Forget about it, I just thought—”

“I’m sure Draco is just out of time,” Hermione says gently. The two of them have gotten close after the war, what with both of them working at the Ministry and all. Harry was a little surprised and, to be honest, a little jealous. There is still stiffness between them whenever he and Draco talk, as if their history has never truly dissipated. No more hostility, no, but never as natural as actual friends.

Harry has always been stubborn in trying, though.

“You know he’s busy these days. The Ministry’s going crazy, what with the coming school year. They’re reviving the curriculum, you know, rewriting the werewolf section and adding the House Elves into the category of Magical Creatures—it’s not ideal, but it’s a good start, and…” Hermione starts rambling but catches herself last minute and blushes, grinning apologetically at Harry. “Ah, you know what I mean. Draco’s probably just waiting for when he has time to write back.”

Harry smiles at her, too. From the kitchen, Ron is humming a song Harry has heard on the wireless but cannot name. The kettle whistles. The tins of tea clink against one another as Ron rummages through them, the sound muffled.

“Does Ron sing at home, too?” Harry asks slyly.

Hermione slaps his arm, blushing furiously now. Harry barks a laugh, trying to dodge Hermione’s arm and stop her at the same time.

“Of course he does. It’s awful.” Hermione tucks a strand of loose hair behind her ear and looks to the kitchen again. Her smile says that it’s the exact opposite of awful. “I can recite the lyrics of every single song on the wireless this week backwards.”

Harry squeezes her arm. Hermione leans on his shoulder and sighs.

On the bookshelf, the kitten quietly flicks its tail.

***

“Ah, no no no.” Harry picks up the kitten for the fourth time and places it back onto his lap. “Don’t go there. You’ll dirty your paws and get ink all over the place.”

The kitten doesn’t understand him and tries, again, to climb onto his desk. Harry sighs, picks the kitten up again, and places it back where it was. He’s trying to write a letter. To Draco. Hermione said not to worry, but Harry cannot help it. He doesn’t have anything to do, anyway. He’ll just write a letter and bring the last one up very casually. _By the way, how have you been recently? Hermione says you’re busy. I sent you an owl but you probably didn’t get it. The owls at the Ministry have always been quite daft..._

The kitten climbs onto the desk again and finds its way to the only words on the blank parchment. He has been sitting here for nearly an hour, and all he’s written is _Dear Draco._ Pathetic. It’s a new low even for him.

The kitten tilts its head as if reading the words. Turns its head and meows at Harry.

“That’s Draco,” Harry says gently, scratching the kitten’s head. The kitten blinks slowly, its thin eyes narrowing as it rubs against Harry’s palm, seeking more. Harry scratches the back of its ears.

“That’s Draco,” Harry says it again. It feels nice to say Draco’s name. _Draco._ He gives up on the letter and picks the kitten up, flopping them both onto the bed. The kitten lets out a startled _meow_ but soon recovers after they land. The soft mattress digs into Harry’s aching back. He sighs, his bones finally loosening at the joints for once.

The kitten steps onto Harry’s stomach—Harry grunts—and journeys to his chest. Harry scratches the soft tufts of fur at its neck, smoothing his hand down its spine.

“Draco is…nice,” he says. The words have formed and arrayed themselves at the back of his mind ever since the war ended, and now they grab the chance to finally flow freely. “He’s nice. Not to everyone, just…to some of them. And he doesn’t know it himself. Yet.” He lets out a soft sigh. “He only hears what everyone else says. But people can be wrong.”

He wonders how long it has taken for those sentences to form inside his head, how long it has taken for him to accept the initial strangeness of it—to accept it as a truth that has always stood, regardless of the circumstances—how long it has taken him to speak them aloud. Perhaps this is why their conversations are always stiff, his and Draco’s. It has taken him this long to simply let go of the prejudices he’s held in the past alone. Has taken him this long to take the first tiny step towards knowing him as a person instead of an idea of a nemesis.

The kitten finds his face and, as if discovering new territory, tentatively touches a paw onto his chin. Harry chuckles. He rolls over, cages the kitten between his two arms, and reaches for the stack of letters Draco has written him since their endeavour started. He’s kept them all on his nightstand. It is reassuring, in a way, for them to be the last thing he sees before closing his eyes every night.

“We’re going to look for inspiration,” Harry declares, and opens the first one. The latest, which Draco owled him a week ago. _”Dear Harry,”_ he reads. Clears his throat to feel less embarrassed, reading letters to a kitten. _”Was that a mistake, or did you actually say you are reading _Pride and Prejudice_? I don’t think I have ever seen you pick up a book for all seven years at Hogwarts…”_

The kitten lies down between his elbows and, looking at the foreign letters, simply listens.

***

Luna’s house, as one would expect with Luna, is covered in thick blankets of vines and bushes, buried beneath deep foliage. Sitting in a quiet alley, only hints of buttery yellow walls are visible through the thick green. It is always a little dark inside. The shadows never blinding but rather comforting, dimming the sharp edges of brightness and veiling everything in a soft light. The evening sun, blocked by the blinds, leaves stripes as golden as honey on the walls—over the edges of the messy table, bending as the lines fall onto the wooden floor. Over the shelves stocked with pots of unnamed plants and bags of seeds, with jars and tins of cookies.

The air smells like baking, like flour and something sweet.

“Would you like a cookie, Harry?” Luna asks, placing the bundles of books onto the floor and pushing a half-knitted blanket aside to make space on the couch so she can sit. “They’ve just come out of the oven.”

Harry considers it. “What are they this time?”

“Cherries and mint. I also added cinnamon and celery seeds. It’s good if you want to spot the Wrackspruts.”

Harry decides he’ll just avoid them for the time being. The kitten, which has taken on the habit of following him everywhere, jumps onto the couch beside Luna. Sniffs her dress, and then jumps onto her lap. Luna sticks her wand into her messily tied up hair and smoothes a hand down the kitten’s back.

“He has really nice fur as a kitten,” Luna comments.

Harry shrugs. The kettle whistles from the kitchen. Luna unplugs her wand from her hair and waves it as Harry pushes the empty plates with crumbs to one side, a bag of sunflower seeds and a half-empty mug to the other. The kettle settles into the space and quiets, humming.

The kitten stares at the kettle, tail flicking.

Harry doesn’t know since when visiting Luna has become a habit. It is simply nice, he supposes, to have someone who sees through him but doesn’t say anything. To pretend he isn’t a little insane after the war. He thinks they all are, sometimes. But next to Luna, it feels like nothing at all.

Like being a little insane doesn’t matter.

The kitten jumps onto the table and, carefully avoiding the burning kettle, sniffs at the sunflower seeds that have spilled out of the bag. Luna cracks one open and feeds it to the kitten. The kitten accepts it and, once again, settles comfortably on Luna’s lap.

Harry cracks one open, too, and holds it close to the kitten. The kitten eyes it before looking away, tucking itself into Luna’s belly.

“Traitor,” Harry mutters.

“Don’t be silly,” Luna says, smoothing her hand along the kitten’s back again, all the way down its tail. “He likes you, of course.”

“Yeah, I’m sure he does.”

“Draco simply doesn’t like too many sunflower seeds. They are good for tea, but—”

“What?”

“Oh. Didn’t you know, Harry?” Luna looks at him, surprised. “Sunflower seeds make great tea. But they—”

“No, no—no, I mean…why did you call it Draco?”

Luna blinks. “Because he’s Draco, of course.”

Harry blinks.

The kitten yawns and rolls onto its back, showing its belly.

“No. No, I mean…that doesn’t make any sense. I didn’t name it Draco. Its name isn’t—”

“Oh, are you giving him a different name?” Luna’s eyes shine with excitement as she scratches the soft fur at the kitten’s belly. “That’s lovely! How about Ruffles McTruffles?”

***

Harry is sitting on his bed, _reading_, when the kitten jumps onto his book and demands attention.

“No,” Harry sighs. “Come on, come here.” He picks the kitten up and places it back beside him. The kitten, however, nimbly slips out of his grasp and, once again, firmly plants its bum onto the open page of _Pride and Prejudice._

“Okay, you know what.” Harry shuts the book. “I can’t read anyway.” It is true. He cannot. Luna says a lot of nonsensical things, yes, but this one nags at his mind. He cannot, however, think of the kitten as Draco in any way. Draco, with his polite after-the-war smile whenever Harry catches him in the Ministry on his way to visit Hermione’s office. Always looking a little tired. Their letters have just begun to lighten, have just begun to be dotted with occasional banter. Harry is still a little careful around him, these days. Draco is careful around him, too.

The kitten meows loudly and calls Harry back to reality. He picks it up and unloads it onto his old, battered hoodie. It has become the kitten’s permanent bed now.

“Sleep,” Harry commands. “You’re going to wake me up at five again tomorrow morning. And you’re going to unsheathe your claws on purpose. Just a little, but it still hurts, you know. And I need my sleep.”

The kitten meows innocently.

Harry sighs and pads back to his bed, extinguishing the lights with a flick of his hand. Shuffles underneath the duvet. The air is getting colder and colder now in the night, autumn slithering close.

Seconds later, he feels the bed dip. Feels tiny footsteps tumbling along the length of his legs, pressing down on the duvet. Harry counts to ten before opening his eyes.

In the dark, the kitten stares back at him with gleaming eyes.

“We talked about this,” Harry says gently.

The kitten meows and squirms underneath the duvet. Peeks its head out right beside Harry’s chin.

“You have your own bed. I don’t share.”

The kitten meows.

Harry sighs. “I’ll squash you in the middle of the night. I’ll squash you flat and I won’t care a bit.”

The kitten purrs and settles itself against Harry’s chest. Harry sighs again and gives in, cupping the kitten’s tiny body underneath his palm. He scratches the tufts of hair at its neck.

The kitten looks at him with large eyes.

“You know,” Harry murmurs, “You really have beautiful eyes.” They have changed from their original blue: one into grey, the other remaining a placid lake. In the darkness, though, they are both as clear as the night sky.

Harry remembers Draco’s eyes. Grey. He has always known them: the piercing look, the narrowed lines as Draco sneered at him from across the Great Hall, the condescending glances. Now, though, they hold none of the sharpness. Defeated at times, yes, but softer. How Harry hated those eyes then, how his heart skips a beat every time he catches them from across the bustling Ministry now.

How long since he’s seen those eyes. How long since he’s seen Draco.

He chuckles wetly when the kitten places a tiny paw onto the thin line of his mouth. He squeezes it, notices a patch of black fur just above. A little dot.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “I just miss someone. A little. It’s Draco, do you remember? The name on the letter?”

The kitten blinks slowly. Harry smoothes a hand down its face, flattening its ears to its head. He laughs softly at the kitten’s round face. The kitten makes a noise and tries to escape. Licks his fingers, tongue rough against his fingertips.

“It’s okay,” Harry says again. Scratches the kitten’s ear, yawns as he readjusts himself on the pillow. “It’s okay.”

He falls asleep with a ball of steady warmth against his chest.

***

Ron and Hermione visit early the next day. The sausages sizzle in the pan as Harry pops open the expensive brand of salmon cat food and pours it into a shallow dish. He pushes it in front of the kitten, who is sitting on a shelf.

“Bon Appétit,” he says, going back to the sausages. The kitten meows before munching onto the food, busy eating its own brunch.

“It’s still here,” Ron says, surprised. The litter of kittens have all left for their new homes already.

“Yeah, well.” Harry shrugs. “I haven’t put it up for adoption. Yet.”

“Oh!” Hermione exclaims. “Are you keeping it?”

“No, no. Just a few more days. I mean,” Harry squeezes a smile, “it can use a bit more care, don’t you think?”

It’s just that it has only arrived. Kind of. A couple more days won’t hurt, will they? He’s always liked to spend time with his kittens, has always liked to watch them grow even if he never ends up keeping any of them. (Ron and Hermione never give up on persuading him. They never give up on trying to have him name the kittens, either, even though he never does.)

Once he puts up an adoption sign, the kitten would be gone within days. What’s the harm in pushing it off just a little longer? Just a little—

“He’s keeping it,” Ron cuts off his thoughts through a mouthful of scrambled eggs.

Harry deadpans. “I’m not keeping it.”

“It’d be brilliant, Harry,” Hermione says, though her smile looks a little sad. “Imagine! A permanent tenant! We’d visit you guys every week!”

“It has cool eyes,” Ron adds, swallowing the mouthful of eggs. “One blue and one grey, isn’t it? Look! That’s not exactly common in cats, is it?”

Harry smiles and shakes his head. Ron and Hermione have been worried about him, he knows, ever since they moved in together at the beginning of the year. Worried that he’d feel left out, worried that he’s quit the Aurors, worried that he isn’t seeing anyone, though they say it takes time, yes, no hurries—though they know what’s happened between him and Draco, whole-heartedly one-sided, though Hermione always looks a little sad whenever he asks after him. They don’t point it out, though, so he doesn’t, either. He is secretly grateful for that.

But he is happy for them. They deserve happiness more than anyone else after everything he’d put them through. What kind of a friend does it make him if he isn’t?

***

He thinks he understands darkness, sometimes. Lying in bed with all the lights shut off, he stares at the ceiling: it is only a nebulous shadow. A morphing of a hundred different shades of grey, coalescing each time he blinks.

It is like staring into nothing, but not really.

Maybe that is where the sunflowers stemmed from. The dreams. Ever since the war ended, sometimes he thinks he recalls a vague memory: of sunflower fields, of a woman with bright copper hair grinning at him. He doesn’t know why, or how, but he can taste the sea in the air. The faint tinge of salt, sharper than all the blocks of colours combined.

Or maybe he just made it up.

He remembers the first kittens he saved. Not assigned from the shelter, no, but saved—from the streets, behind a filthy alley. It was winter. The mother had apparently abandoned the litter of kittens, but the rest was nowhere to be found: all that was left were two tiny kittens, and they couldn’t have been more than a day old. Dirtied with afterbirth and cold from the inside, left underneath a flaky oil painting.

He brought them home. Cast heating charms, rubbed them dry, tried to warm them up and tubed them milk. The kittens recovered after several hours. Their eyes not even opened yet, they crawled with tiny legs over the blankets, searching. Their meows so thin he would’ve missed it if he’d spoken a word, if he’d whispered.

Two days later, they died.

It happens. It was not his fault. He did everything he could; there was no way he could have prevented it. But he could think of a million ways to prevent it. He stared at the blank ceiling and saw only their eyes, too large on their tiny faces, not even yet opened. Their thin meows echoed by his ear into his sleep, a restless wander.

It was the first time he cried for a kitten.

He still remembers their marks, sparse patches of black fur on skin with fur so thin it tinged pink. One had a mark covering its right eye, like a calf. The other had three paws in black socks, like tiny boots as it crawled unseeingly across the blanket, sensing only by touch. Harry had kissed their foreheads. Had stayed up all night by their sides, watching them squirm in a sea of blankets. Had chuckled, had teased them in a soft murmur. _Look at you. Bet you’ll be a splendid swimmer, won’t you?_

The next week, spring arrived. Pear blossoms covered every tree and sidewalk like a layer of snow, the last of the season.

***

He learns that Ron and Hermione are getting married on their next visit. All the usual, afternoon tea with tiny cakes that lasts well into dinner. Harry cooks kebab; the kitten sleeps on the bookshelf. Hermione curls up on the couch and falls asleep murmuring. Harry fetches her a blanket and rushes back to the kitten to check on the kebab while Ron tucks her in. The air is warm from the cooking, filled with something robust.

Ron saunters in, peers over Harry’s shoulder. Wanders to the fridge and opens it.

“We eat up half of your food storage every time we visit,” he says.

Harry shrugs. “Well, this way it doesn’t expire.”

Ron mocks surprise. “You’ve been feeding me stale food all this time?”

“No wasting food, yeah?”

Ron smiles and shakes his head. Shuts the fridge. “You might need to feed three mouths in the future. Better stack up your food.”

Harry doesn’t get it. Turns over, is ready to ask what Ron means when suddenly it clicks—Ron’s tinged cheeks, looking away—and his mouth drops.

“Oh my god,” he says.

Ron grins like it’s splitting his face. “Yeah. Oh my god.”

Harry feels like crying. He pulls Ron into a huge embrace instead, squeezing him hard. Ron squeezes him back, laughing.

“Where’s the ring?” Harry asks, laughing, too, pulling back. “Where is it?”

“Err, it kind of happened accidentally last night.” Ron laughs. “So.”

They bring the kebab to the couch and wake Hermione up. Hermione laughs, too, when she learns that Harry knows the news, and slaps Ron’s arm for breaking the news without her—hugs Harry heartily. The kitten munches on its can of salmon and, afterwards, falls asleep again on the shelf.

Harry finds a bottle of wine. They stay until much later than they usually do, cheeks flushed and all a little too happy. Hermione passes out again on the couch, snoring gently.

“It’s odd,” Harry says, tipsy. “You know what Luna said the other day?”

Ron, of course, doesn’t know. He pours himself some more wine.

“That the kitten is Draco.” Harry laughs. “Can you imagine? Draco? A kitten?”

Ron snorts. “He’d be a grumpy kitten.”

“A prestigious kitten.”

“Demands all the best food.”

“Sits only on the best cushions.”

“Sleeps in the master bedroom in the middle of the bed, all by himself.”

“That’s what this one’s doing now.” Harry nudges his chin towards the kitten, who is now peering at them from the bookshelf. “Sleeping in the middle of my bed. At least it’s not kicking me to the couch.”

Ron looks thoughtful. He slowly twirls his wine glass, the liquor gleaming like amber. “What if it _is_ Malfoy?”

Harry’s jaw drops. “You’re not seriously considering it.”

“No, listen. It likes to climb onto your shoulders, right? Malfoy’s taller than you—it’s unfair, yes, but—but that’s the height he usually sees the world from. Right? From that angle.” Ron takes a sip of his wine and points at Harry with his glass. “That’s why it climbs onto your shoulders so much.”

Harry deadpans. “Kittens climb onto shoulders all the time.”

Ron shrugs. “I mean, it’s to _your_ advantage. That means you’ve been cuddling him this whole month.”

Harry’s face burns. Ron looks sympathetically at him.

“You’re smitten, mate. And you haven’t even started dating him.”

“Totally irrelevant,” Harry mutters.

Ron shrugs again and sighs. “Gryffindor up, mate.”

***

It is raining. The city darkens, the sky bruised; fat droplets crash into the window pane and race down, tiny streams rushing to a finish line.

The kitten is fascinated by it and tries to chase each and every one of them.

Harry watches with a dopey smile and yawns. His pajamas are much too comfortable, and so is his bed, his pillows. He feels as though he will fall asleep at any time. Just slip into unconsciousness without noticing.

The kitten gnaws at the windowpane, trying to bite a droplet. Harry chuckles and yawns again. He wonders if Draco does this, too, as a human, if the kitten really is Draco. Not gnawing at the windowpane, exactly, but—does Draco like the rain?

Does he sit by the window and watch the droplets race each other down in thin rivers?

It would be nice, Harry thinks, if Draco has a little kitten in him. Draco always seems so stiff whenever they talk. Always tense, as if waiting for a snarled remark from the bustling crowd around them. What does he look like, when he goes home and shrugs off his coat and sinks into his armchair? When he changes into his pajamas and lies in bed, just minutes before sleep?

Soft, Harry thinks. He can imagine Draco being soft.

Lightning strikes, followed by rumbling thunder. The kitten jumps and screams as it puffs up and dashes to Harry’s bed, head-butting him in his belly. Harry grunts before he gently covers the kitten with his palm, smoothing down its back.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. He shifts down and curls himself around the kitten, so it is nestled at his belly. Rests his head on his folded arm. “It’s okay. It’s over now, see?”

Just then, another thunder rumbles. The kitten screams again and tries to burrow deeper. Harry winces at the ill timing as he strokes the kitten’s back, scratches its ears. Murmurs, trying to soothe it. The rain patters against the window, a dull, lulling rhythm.

“It’s okay,” Harry murmurs, and falls asleep like that.

***

St. Mungo’s is almost exactly the same as he remembers. The same dull, grey walls cracked at places, the same faintly nauseating smell of potions in the air; people wheezing every now and then, strange gurgling noises from whosever head that has turned into a goldfish bowl. The same blonde witch at the front desk, only now a pair of spectacles sits on her sharp nose. They make her look like a hawk.

Harry quickly heads towards the Fourth Floor before she spots him. The kitten on his shoulder squirms, meowing uncertainly.

He scratches its ears as he takes the stairs one at a time.

He himself doesn’t even know why he is here, really. It’s just that Hermione’s freaking out. She and Ron stayed in the guest room that drunken night, and woke up the next morning to another brunch. Ron brought up how the kitten eating its breakfast on the bookshelf was probably Malfoy—quite half-heartedly, a joke—and Hermione was stunned out of proportion. In lightning speed she secured an appointment at St. Mungo’s for Harry to visit the next day, hair frizzled when she finally finished the Firecall, soot smeared over her cheek. She looked rather distressed, so Harry complied just to make her happy.

It’s not like he thinks the theory might be true. Nope. Not even a little.

They reach the Fourth Floor and wait on dull chairs painted mint green. Harry peels the prickled paint and darts his eyes around. The kitten has it worse than him, tail flicking nervously and meowing every now and then, looking up from his lap.

“It’s okay,” Harry says, ignoring the quick beats of his heart. “It’s not like you’re actually Draco or something. It’s nothing. I’ve been here so many times and nothing’s ever gone wrong.”

The kitten meows loudly in protest. In protest of what, Harry does not know, but he chuckles all the same. On impulse, he bends down and kisses the top of the kitten’s head.

The kitten quiets and burrows into Harry’s belly, tail still flicking.

A Healer comes out from behind one of the doors, checks her clipboard, and looks up. Harry hurries forward; it is their turn now.

The Healer tries to take over the kitten. It shrieks and clings onto Harry.

Harry bites his bottom lip and, one by one, he pries the kitten’s tiny paws off. It screams and kicks wildly as the Healer struggles to hold it in her gloved hands.

“We’re just going to run a few standard tests,” she explains, grabbing the kitten back into place as it tries to claw at her and escape. “Nothing to worry about. You can wait in the lobby if you’d like, it will be over in a couple of hours. Would you like us to perform a sedation charm on him?”

Harry is quiet. “Just don’t hurt him.”

“Of course not,” the Healer says, already turning away as if she only heard half of what he said.

Harry sinks into the stiff, mint-green chairs again. The clock on the wall ticks by slowly, the handles moving only a fraction of an inch at once. He peels the prickled paint off. Bites his nails. Remembers he should not bite his nails and stops, then resumes. Counts the cracks in the walls. Debates over whether he should count the branched lines as one crack or several, decides to count them as separate ones. Gets to two hundred and twenty-seven and loses track. Counts again. Gets to three hundred and five when the doors open again and the Healer emerges from behind.

Harry shoots up from his seat, dizzy from the sudden movement.

They head into her office. The Healer closes the door behind them with a soft click and immediately launches into a series of test results. Harry tries to keep up, but it is like trying to understand someone speaking Arithmancy.

“What—” Harry cuts her rambling voice off— “What?”

“It is a special condition,” the Healer repeats without slowing down, slightly annoyed. “There are some abnormalities in the results. We suggest you see a special Healer, we have a list of names you can choose from, all experts at accidental _Animagus_ transformations, and—”

“Wait, specialists?” Harry says, dumbfounded. _”Animagus?”_

“Yes,” the Healer says, now greatly annoyed. “There are some abnormalities in the results, the level of the magical trace of Mandrake leaves in his blood is—”

“Okay, okay.” Harry cuts her off again. “A list of specialists. Yes?”

He waits for another thirty minutes for the Healer to fetch the sedated kitten. All the while, his mind is numb from the news. _Animagus._ He looks at the cracks in the walls but doesn’t see them, not really. His head is a distant haze from the world.

Back at home, Harry holds the sleeping kitten on his lap, stroking its head. He is ready to murmur a _hello_ when the kitten wakes, but it jumps—hisses—and scrambles off to the bookshelf as if its life depends on it. Curls itself into a ball where Harry cannot reach, stiff in the shadows.

Harry is startled and, to be honest, a little hurt. He tries to call the kitten back down, pops open a can of its favourite salmon, but the kitten ignores him. When he reaches blindly into the depth of the bookshelf, it hisses and bites him.

“Alright, fine!” Harry snaps, the tension of waiting at St. Mungo’s for a whole afternoon finally wearing him down. “Stay there if you want to so much!”

He takes a shower, turns the water to the coldest. Stands under the spray and breathes through his mouth. Stays there several seconds, forehead pressed against the cold tiles.

The cascade beats him on his shoulder.

The air feels warm after the shower, quiet. Harry drapes a towel over his shoulder as he pads around, barefoot and just the tiniest bit hopeful, first to his bedroom and then to the kitchen. Finally, he gives in and checks the living room. Stands on his tiptoes and peers into the back of the bookshelf—

The kitten is still there. Still in the shadows, not even having moved an inch.

In the kitchen, the can of salmon is untouched.

“Hey,” Harry whispers.

The kitten doesn’t move.

“Are you not hungry? You haven’t eaten dinner.” Harry takes a deep breath. “Or water? Are you thirsty?”

Silence.

“You need to eat something. At least drink water. I know you’re exhausted, but you can’t—”

Harry drops his head.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Still nothing. Harry sighs and shifts his weight to another leg.

“I’m going to wait until you come out,” he warns, defeated. “I’m going to stay right here until you eat your dinner or drink water. I will. I won’t move an inch. I really won’t.”

He doesn’t stay _right there,_ in the end. First, he sits onto the couch after his legs become sore, waiting, doing nothing—then at some point, he drifts off. He is standing in the middle of the field of sunflowers again. The bright yellow stretches on and on, fading into the horizon; the sky is soft, empty. He stares into the blankness and tries to fill it with something, anything. The warmth in the air, the faint scent of summer—he gazes into nothingness, the skyline so faraway and intangible, yet right in front of his eyes—

He wakes blearily to a soft nose booping his. Clear eyes meet his own, one as blue as ice and one as grey as a dove.

The kitten starts licking him with its tiny tongue.

“Hey.” Harry’s throat thickens. He cups the kitten and nudges it closer to him, burying his nose into its soft fur. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for today. I’m sorry.”

The kitten turns and continues to lick his nose. Harry chuckles wetly.

He watches with drooping eyelids as the kitten finishes the can of salmon. Then, just as sleepy, he heads back to his bedroom. The kitten trails behind with footsteps so soft that the only thing he hears is his own bare feet padding against the floor. Once in the bedroom, the kitten jumps onto the bed and curls against Harry’s chest as Harry covers them both underneath the duvet.

Harry messily kisses the ball of purring warmth in front of his chest. _Goodnight,_ he wants to say, but falls asleep before he can.

***

Khatri is a smiling woman in buttery white robes and a long braid. Her office is painted in warm yellow, a bowl of toffees sitting on her desk in ceramics the colour of ochre, of blues. She winks at him when he walks into her office, but otherwise says nothing else about him being _the_ Harry Potter.

“He will need to stay here for three days,” she says, looking up after she checks something off her thick, leather-bound notebook. “We’ll have to wait for the results after we run the tests. It’s nothing dangerous.” She looks down at her notebook once again, puts down her quill, and smiles at Harry. “It will be over in no time.”

Harry swallows. “Three days?”

“Yes. Is there anything special he will need? Any precautions, anything we should look out for?” Khatri picks up her quill again. “You can _Apparate_ back to your house and fetch anything that will comfort him, of course. A plush toy, a blanket, or—”

“No—no.” Harry strokes the kitten’s neck, the soft tufts of fur. The kitten purrs and rubs against Harry’s palm. “He, um. Doesn’t like to be handled. If you can…”

“Of course. I will keep it in mind.”

“Three days?”

“Yes. We will go over the results when you come back and pick him up.”

Harry looks away. The kitten nudges Harry’s finger with its soft, tiny nose, rubs its cheek against his knuckles.

***

The flat is empty.

Ron and Hermione visit and chat as loud as they can. Ron digs out an old wireless and screws the button this way and that, finds a song and lets it play softly in the background. The singer lifts her voice and stays up high, the note hanging like a chandelier, floating in the air.

Ron squeezes his shoulder before they leave. Hermione, who’s been glancing anxiously at him all afternoon, hugs him tightly by the door. Wants to say something, opens her mouth—closes it again.

“Are you sure you’re going to be alright?” she asks. Her hair is frizzled again underneath her furry hat. Winter is approaching. “We can stay, you know we—”

Harry reassures her that he is going to be alright. Ron wraps his arm around her as they leave, Hermione looking over her shoulder even as their silhouettes become tiny. Harry waves until their backs finally disappear, and then he heads back into his flat.

The music is still floating in the air. The notes gently descend before lifting once again.

Harry doesn’t turn it off.

The flat feels disproportionately large. It doesn’t make any sense. The bookshelves are covered in a faint film of dust he has never noticed. Every piece of furniture is silent whenever he passes by: the couch, the cabinets, the wardrobe. He feels like a ghost in his own home. He cooks, drinks water, takes a shower. Changes into his pajamas. Sinks into bed and charms the lights off. They extinguish without a sound. The wireless is still playing softly in the living room, the music dampened by the shut door.

Harry stares at the blank ceiling. Reminds himself that this is just a kitten, that it has not been in his life for more than two months, that he has slept in this bed alone for countless nights before—has battled his nightmares alone on the vast mattress, white and boundless like an ocean. He turns onto his side and shuts his eyes. Opens them again seconds later, restless. On the nightstand, his glasses catch the moonlight and glint softly in the dark.

Harry tosses onto his other side. Shuts his eyes.

***

“You have quite the kitten here.”

Harry’s cheeks warm, but his fingers don’t stop stroking the soft tufts of fur at the sleeping kitten’s neck. “Did he not behave?”

“Oh, no. That’s not what I meant.” Khatri laughs and folds her hands together. “He is quite extraordinary. Not a kitten at all, in fact. He is a wizard stuck in his _Animagus_ form.”

Harry’s fingers still. The buttery yellow walls fade around him, the bowl of toffees strangely close.

“It’s a time-lapse curse,” Khatri explains, “which, as you know, prolongs the effect of any spell, potion, or transformation. The victim has likely transformed without the knowledge that they are under a curse and is unable to transform back. It does wear off on its own, but the problem in this case is that we cannot determine how long it will take.” She takes a deep breath. “Judging by the fact that there have been no symptoms or signs of unusual behaviors for the past week, I think it wouldn’t wear off for quite a while.”

Harry opens his mouth. Closes it. “So he just stays as a kitten? Is there nothing we can do?”

“There is a counter-curse we can perform,” Khatri says. “It directly transforms the victim back to human form. It forces the magic to reverse—almost like an extremely strong _Priori Incantatem._ You can imagine that we don’t generally recommend it as our first choice of solutions: the sudden transformation can be a blow to the victim’s mind and their magical core. But in this case, it would be suitable to perform the operation.”

Harry swallows. “It will damage their magical core?”

“Oh no, no. If the operation is successful, as it usually is, the victim will feel extremely nauseous, disoriented, and will require lots of rest both magically and physically—which just means they will be sleeping a lot. They may also show memory loss or gaps for the first week or two, but there are no known lasting symptoms.” Khatri remembers something and frowns a little. “How long has it been since the victim transformed? To your knowledge, of course.”

“Um.” Harry strokes the sleeping kitten’s ears. “At least two months?”

“Ah. That will make it just that bit trickier.” Khatri takes a deep breath. “As you know, when performing a spell, the more compliant the receiver is, the more chance there is the spell will deliver its effects smoothly. But the longer one stays in _Animagus_ form, the more primitive one’s mind becomes—and the more difficult to control. It’s more unpredictable. However, this is our best chance. I still suggest we perform the operation.”

Harry worries his bottom lip. On his lap, the kitten sleeps soundly. It shuffles, turns—burrows into Harry’s belly.

“I know it sounds scary. But we actually do have a high chance to succeed.” Khatri leans back and unfolds her hands. “How about this: go home, take a nap, and think about it. Owl me your response tomorrow. No matter what your choice is, we will find a solution and take care of him. Don’t worry.”

Harry nods dumbly. “Okay,” he murmurs, standing up. Cradling the kitten in front of him like a baby. “Okay.”

***

Per Khatri’s instruction, they take a nap.

The kitten, despite having already slept, is still tired. It wakes up briefly after they arrive home—drinks some water, eats a small portion of salmon—then crawls back to Harry’s side and falls asleep again. Harry strokes its back lightly, not quite in his mind.

The kitten is Draco.

He still cannot quite put it together. Is he still allowed to touch the kitten? To stroke its back, to scratch its ears, to cuddle it? Certainly Draco would never allow him to if he were a human. Is he still allowed to do all that when Draco is a kitten?

Draco will be furious about it all after he is transformed back.

He pushes himself off the couch and heads to the kitchen for coffee. They never seem to be strong enough these days. He slowly gulps down the bitter thing and grimaces after he finishes. Rinses the mug, sets it aside upside down to dry. Goes back to the couch. Sits there, stares into midair. From the corner of his eye, the kitten is a soft, white ball curled up against his thigh.

The wireless is still singing softly in the corner.

He falls asleep without meaning to. When he blearily climbs back awake, the kitten is curled into a ball on his chest. Back rising and falling faintly with each breath, warm above his rib cage.

Harry sighs. He strokes the top of the kitten’s head anyway, scratches its ears anyway. It has grown so much over the past few weeks, its chubbiness stretching into the lithe body it will eventually inhabit, but it is still so tiny. It ears, its paws—so tiny.

Harry sighs faintly and throws all thoughts away. He strokes down the kitten’s back, burying his finger into its silky fur, and drifts into sleep once again.

***

“Draco is happy today,” Luna says.

They turn to the kitten at the same time. The kitten meows at the sudden attention and jumps onto the table, pawing at the bag of sunflower seeds. Luna cracks one open, and starts popping a tiny hill of seeds while the kitten munches on it.

“Is he?” Harry asks, absent-minded.

Luna nods. Cracks the last seed open and reaches for a cookie. They are cranberry with chunks of almond and key lime glaze. Rather ordinary, Harry thinks, if not a little sour.

“He can turn back into a human,” Harry says, watching the kitten munch on another kernel. “That’s probably why.”

“Oh.” Luna takes a bite of her cookie in surprise. “I rather thought it would make him sad.”

“…Make him sad?” Harry asks, dumbfounded. “Why?”

“Because he doesn’t want to turn back into a human, of course.”

Harry opens his mouth. Closes it again. “He doesn’t want to be a human?”

“I suppose it’s understandable.” Luna smoothes a hand down the kitten’s back, chewing the cookie. “Being a human is rather hard sometimes.”

Harry closes his mouth. He remembers the way Draco stood whenever they talked in the Ministry, shoulders tense, as if ready to jump at any time. Remembers the passersby throwing glances at them, some sneering almost like Draco used to. Whispers and stares, hushed or blatant in the background. _Don’t care about them_, he’d told Draco then, wanting to punch them all. _They don’t understand anything._

Draco had smiled thinly._ Of course not._

“But it all depends on what you want,” Luna continues, “Don’t you think?”

***

Back at home, the kitten jumps onto the bookshelf and meows at Harry. It does seem happy today. It sits down, tail flicking, and peers at Harry from over the edge of the bookshelf.

Harry picks up his copy of _Pride and Prejudice._ “You want to read a book?”

The kitten meows.

Harry shrugs, curls himself on the couch and starts to read. Mr Darcy has just proposed to Elizabeth and, if he remembers correctly, is about to be rejected quite gruesomely. He picks up from where he left off and manages three pages—Elizabeth now angrily accusing Mr Darcy of being selfish and arrogant—when the kitten jumps from the bookshelf and lands on the arm of the couch. Loses its footing and slips, letting out a loud and startled _meow_—quickly regains its balance and pretends nothing has happened.

Harry laughs. “Come here, you snob.”

The kitten meows and crawls onto Harry’s lap. Settles there, and rubs its head to Harry’s chin, thin eyes blinking slowly. Harry laughs and presses a kiss to the kitten’s head.

“Do you want to read it together?” He chuckles. “Can you even read a book?”

They read it together nonetheless, Harry turning the pages a pace slower than he usually does. The kitten doesn’t seem to pay attention, though, insistent in its rubbing against Harry’s cheek.

“You know, you said it was your favourite book,” Harry murmurs into the kitten’s soft fur. “You told me in one of your letters. You really are a snob, aren’t you? Whose favourite book is _Pride and Prejudice?”_

The kitten meows, thin eyes blinking.

“I always dream of a sunflower field,” Harry says. His face warms; he doesn’t know why he is telling the kitten this. Why he is telling Draco this, out of the blue. But he continues. “It’s always summer. A sea of them stretches to the horizon…in full bloom, you know, like they’re chasing the sun. Like they’re kissing it.” He sighs softly. “Maybe we can go one day. There’s one in Surrey, I think. We’ll go see it together.”

The kitten looks at him unblinkingly. There is something in its gaze, something in its unwavering blue and grey eyes—then, slowly, it presses a paw to Harry’s mouth.

“I know,” Harry murmurs and closes his eyes. Opens them again, holds the kitten’s gaze like he would Draco’s. “It’s tiring. But there are a lot of beautiful things, too. No matter what you choose, we…we’re in this together. We’ll go to Surrey anyway.” Harry lets out a laugh. “And we’ll finish _Pride and Prejudice_ together. I can read it to you, hmm?”

Later that night, the kitten doesn’t come into his room when he tucks himself to bed, like it usually does—but much later, after Harry has already extinguished the lights and is adrift between consciousness and sleep. It curls itself into the space in front of Harry’s chest, and touches its soft, tiny nose to Harry’s cheek. Just once. Like an answer.

Harry lets out a soft sigh. He shifts, kisses the kitten’s head, and falls asleep.

***

Khatri’s buttery yellow walls do nothing to soothe him this time. He sits outside her office in the small waiting lobby, on one of the wooden benches that line the walls. Above them, the ceiling fan spins with a muffled noise, sending wind to circulate the space. There are cooling charms available, Khatri explained, but the white noise soothes the patients sometimes, the sound repeating again and again like a circle with neither a beginning nor an end.

It does not soothe him now.

The kitten senses his nerves and becomes jittery as well, tail flicking as it paces his lap. Harry carefully smoothes a hand down the kitten’s head, softly scratches the tufted fur at its neck. Regrets, with a tiny voice in his head, that he did not take his time to say goodbye last night.

Because this is what this is. A goodbye.

The door opens, and Khatri steps out from behind it, her wand tucked in her robe pocket. She checks something off her thick notebook, looks up. Catches Harry’s eyes and smiles warmly.

Harry takes a deep breath. On his lap, the kitten meows loudly.

“It’s going to be alright,” Harry murmurs, bending down and burying his nose into the softness of the kitten’s belly. His voice is muffled in the white fur. He takes another deep breath, throat wet, and presses the kitten’s ears flat to its head and he smoothes a hand over them. The kitten looks at him with unblinking eyes. Harry chuckles wetly. “It’s going to be alright,” he says again. “I love you. It will be okay.”

It’s easier, saying it to a kitten as one would to a pet.

Khatri takes over the kitten with gentle hands. “I’ll take care of him,” she says, even though they’ve gone over this once already. “He’ll stay here for the first week, and then we’ll see if he is well enough to be discharged. Remember,” she winks, “No visits. He will need all the rest he can get.”

Harry squeezes a smile. The kitten looks at him from over her hands, its tiny paws perched on her fingers.

“See you,” Harry whispers, reaching out to scratch the kitten’s ears one last time. The kitten’s eyes blink into two thin lines, closing slowly.

They disappear into the room, the door shutting behind them. Harry stays for one second, two seconds, before turning and leaving the buttery yellow walls.

***

“You’re best man, of course,” Ron says. Pauses, then comments, “You really should look happier than that.”

Hermione hisses. “Ron!”

“What?”

Harry’s face heats with embarrassment. He hasn’t been paying attention, no, but he really should be. It is his best friends’ wedding, after all.

“Don’t worry about it,” Hermione sighs. “It’s an ill timing.”

“It’s totally not,” Ron argues, knocking thrice on the wooden coffee table. “Stop cursing our wedding, Hermione.”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake!”

Harry laughs despite himself. He knows that Ron is doing this on purpose, and he appreciates their voices filling up the empty space in his flat: the air silent and absent of even the tiniest of sounds, the sounds of dust motes landing on the wooden floor. Appreciates their bodies filling up the space, too large these days, as if the distance between each piece of furniture has doubled.

Draco is still sleeping at Khatri’s. She has owled to tell him that the spell was successful and Draco has transformed back to his human form. He is sleeping a lot, is all, which is to be expected since his transformation has lasted for a long period of time. He needs rest. Everything else is perfectly fine; she will owl again when he has recovered enough to be discharged.

Harry has tidied up his guest room simply because he didn’t know what else to do. Changed the sheets, fluffed up the pillows, pulled the curtains wide open and wiped the windows clean, reflections gleaming on the clear panes. Dug out an old lamp and placed it on the nightstand. It emits a warm, yellow light in the dark. He thinks he might call the shelter to see if they’ve taken in any kittens recently, see if they need fostering. It only lingers in the back of his mind, though, a fleeting thought.

Ron and Hermione visit and insist he needs to catch up on their preparation for the wedding and give advice on their choice of flowers, because Ron thinks they should use white roses but Hermione wants buttercups, and shouldn’t it be _her_ decision since she will be the one walking the isle?

“I thought they were the same,” Harry interrupts, all honesty. Ron makes a horrified face as Hermione’s eyes widen before she launches into an incredulous speech on the differences between the _Rosaceae_ and the _Ranunculaceae_ family.

“Anyway,” Ron cuts her off when she pauses to take a breath, “As I was saying, you’re best man. As such, you are allowed to bring a date.” Ron winks. “Just don’t steal the thunder from us.”

Harry laughs dryly. “How am I supposed to steal the thunder from you when I am currently very single?”

“Excuse me,” Ron accuses, “I thought your pining had finally borne fruit.”

“I don’t pine, Ron.”

“Haven’t you two been exchanging letters?”

“That’s not—”

“You’ve lived together for the past two and a half months!”

Harry looks away. Hermione looks at him sadly. Ron sighs.

“Either way. The most important thing is that you are not allowed to write a weepy speech. Ever.”

“And don’t forget to prepare it before the wedding,” Hermione chimes in.

“Every guest should be cackling by the time you finish,” Ron declares. “No exceptions. If you write a weepy speech I will hex you out of my wedding.”

Harry snorts. His chest lightens, and he feels like breathing again.

***

Harry picks Draco up the day he is discharged. Khatri assures him that everything is fine, that Draco is just a little dopey and still sleeps a lot during the day—_like a cat, yes?_—but he should slowly recover over the span of next week. She instructs him on how Draco is supposed to take his potions, and then lets Harry carry a muzzy Draco home.

Back at the flat, Draco groggily finds the bedroom, drops himself onto Harry’s bed, and falls asleep.

Harry’s mouth drops open. He closes it and resigns to sleeping in the guest room that night.

Draco doesn’t wake up, not really. He makes muffled noises when Harry shakes him awake for breakfast, for lunch, for his potions—eyelids half-closed, head drooping—rolls over once Harry is finished and falls asleep again. Harry cooks dinner and eats alone in the kitchen. Takes showers at night, makes coffee in the morning. Listens to the pipes humming in the walls, the coffee machine beeping enthusiastically, marking the passing days.

Draco sleeps like a rock through it all.

Though sometimes he thinks he hears Draco tossing and turning in bed, mumbling. Frowning faintly, the way one would in a dream, as if uncertain whether it is reality. Harry tries to stop himself, but his hands reach out of their own accord, smoothing Draco’s furrowed brows. Draco relaxes a little and sinks deeper into the pillows, letting out a sigh.

Harry doesn’t sleep at night. Stares at the ceiling in the guest room and memorises a new map of cracks and shadows.

***

A thunderstorm hits four days later.

Rain starts falling at midnight and descends into a heavy downpour in no time. The sky opens up, and it lets go of the heaviness it’s been burgeoning. Lightning strikes behind the clouds, followed by rumbling thunder that shakes the city. Harry’s eyes are open as he looks out of the window, now streaked with tiny rivers. His glasses on the nightstand reflect the panes and are streaked with rivers as well, droplets racing each other down.

His door creaks open, a faint noise amidst the pattering rain. Harry startles and turns.

By the door stands Draco.

He looks so thin, clothes hanging off his body like rags. Shoulders hunched, his hand a tight grip on the door frame. His face is obscured by the shadows, only the brightness of his eyes clear in the dark: catching the faint light outside, the light of a thunderstorm.

Another lightning strikes; thunder rumbles. Draco flinches. His silhouette is illuminated for a fraction of a second, pale like a ghost, knuckles white.

He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.

“Come here,” Harry whispers, reaching out.

Draco nods, shaky. Steps forward, one foot after another; slow, as if he has to recall how to use his limbs, an old grandfather clock again winded after the handles have not walked for decades. Harry pulls the duvet back as Draco reaches the bed, lets out a trembling sigh—curls himself into a ball and nestles against Harry’s chest, clutching Harry’s pajamas as though holding on.

Harry covers Draco under the duvet. Hesitates, and then pulls Draco closer by the small of his back. Draco exhales and grabs Harry closer still.

“It’s okay,” Harry murmurs, running a hand up and down Draco’s spine—up and down every tumbling knot of it. Squeezes Draco’s rigid shoulders. “It’s okay. You’re safe now.”

Another thunder rumbles, the sky exploding into cracks. Draco flinches again. Harry buries his fingers into Draco’s hair, murmurs into it. Draco’s breath is hot against his neck, his chapped lips brushing against the soft skin every now and then. His body is warm, hot, even—as though he is burning. His grip tight at Harry’s collar, knuckles nestled against Harry’s chest. Harry doesn’t know how long it takes for Draco to loosen his tense shoulders, for him to drift off again, only that he keeps murmuring, even into sleep—murmuring, words buried into Draco’s hair like a lullaby, holding Draco close like a baby in a cradle.

***

The storm ceases by dawn.

Harry wakes up to strange white lights playing across the ceiling. He blinks groggily, and it takes him a second to remember that he is in the guest room.

Beside him, Draco is soundly asleep. His fingers loosely curled around Harry’s pajamas, the fabric bunched up in the cage of his long fingers. His hair fanned out on the pillows. Dawn catches on his pale lashes and bounces off, like stardust.

Harry wants to trace his closed lids.

It’s frightening, how he holds his breath at the sight of this man. How his heart pounds in his ribcage, wild and at peace all the same. Frightening, how much Draco looks like he belongs here: right here on Harry’s bed, cheek pressed into the pillows, blanketed in the early morning light. Strange, too, how Harry feels like he knows so much about him yet at the same time, he knows nothing at all. How he falls back into breathless astonishment the instant he sees him again after two and a half months.

Draco stirs. Harry wants to pull him close, but Draco blinks himself awake.

The bright grey of his eyes is the only thing Harry sees clearly.

After a long moment of silence, of looking into each other’s eyes, Harry asks, soft and out of nowhere, “Water?”

Draco blinks. Shakes his head.

“No,” he rasps.

“Do you…do you want to talk about it?”

Draco looks lost for a second. Then his eyes focus again. “Are you going to report me?”

“For being an unregistered _Animagus?_” It sounds so ridiculous, so out of place. Yet Harry asks, “What do you think?”

“No.”

Harry reaches out, then, and cups Draco’s face. Strokes his cheek with his thumb. Draco exhales, closes his eyes, and leans into the touch.

“It’s just so tiring,” he whispers, voice hoarse from disuse. “I just wanted…to get away from all of it. Just for a little while.” He laughs. “No one ever leaves me alone.”

“No,” Harry answers, even though there is no question. He starts to trace the shell of Draco’s ear. Draco sighs softly. When he opens his eyes again, he looks nervous.

“My letters,” he starts. Hesitates, but pushes through all the same. “You keep them on your nightstand.”

“Yes,” Harry says, cheeks warming. There is no point in denying it.

“You’re reading _Pride and Prejudice.”_

“You already know that.”

“You said you love me.”

The words, so unapologetic coming from Draco’s lips. So bare, so simple. _You love me._

Harry’s cheeks burn. “Yes,” he says.

“How do you know that?” Draco asks, eyes searching. “How do you know?”

_How does he know?_ A thousand different answers flow through his head. Harry tries to catch one, tries to translate the brightness into syllables, tries to give shape to it, the air vibrating to make space for his voice—

“Because with you I don’t count the cracks in the ceiling. Because with you I can fall asleep. Because I fall in love with storms when I look at you by the window. Because I dream about sunflowers again and again, and I want to see them with you, together, and I have never wanted to see them with anyone, or to see them at all. Because—”

Somewhere between the lines, Draco cradles his face helplessly. Pulls him down, and kisses him.

Slow and soft. Words fade from Harry’s head and all he can think of is nothing. Only Draco’s mouth, how chapped his lips are, how he tastes like in the early hours of dawn. It feels as though he has been kissing this man for his whole life. There is no beginning, and no end, either. He doesn’t stop. Draco doesn’t stop. Harry’s heart is in his mouth, is on the tip of his tongue, is beating in his chest like it has finally found its home.

“So strange,” Draco murmurs, touching Harry’s parted lips with his fingertips. Traces the shape of them, dazed. “I have to learn you all over again.”

“Learn me?” Harry asks. A laugh escapes from his chest. “Did you learn me as a kitten?”

“Yes. Well. You had a bigger face, then.”

Harry laughs, the sound bubbling from his chest. Draco smiles faintly—faint, but smiling all the same.

**Epilogue**

Ron and Hermione’s wedding takes place in the gardens at the Burrow.

Which isn’t a surprise, really. Molly and Fleur decorated it with baby’s-breath, peonies, and stephanotis, so the lush green of the gardens is covered in a thick layer of white as though coated in snow, even though it is mid-June. Luna charmed Lily of the Valley’s to grow at every other corner, tiny bells dangling amidst dotted green.

Sparkling wine is served on floating plates charmed to splash children with water if they try to grab one. Harry takes two tiny glasses and holds one stem in each hand before taking off to look for Draco. Finds him by the gate leading to the altar, stuffs a glass into his hands, and presses a chaste kiss to his lips.

“Everything is going to be alright,” he murmurs again. “Just drink and don’t think about anything else.”

Draco snorts. “Great advice. I’ll just trash the wedding like a Gryffindor.”

“Hey!”

But Draco downs the glass in one go, his cheeks flushing in an instant. He’s been nervous since last night. Kept climbing out of bed to check on his robes, insisting that he needed to iron them again, that he needed to polish his shoes again, and was Harry certain he didn’t need to bring another gift for Granger and Weasley? There was a pearl hairpin that nobody in his family had used since his great-grandmother Marjorie’s wedding, perhaps Granger would like—

_Stop,_ Harry had mumbled after Draco flicked on the lights for the eighth time to iron his robes and, despite Draco’s yelps, had proceeded to sprawl himself all over Draco so he couldn’t get up again.

“It’s going to be alright,” he says again, now standing in the gardens of the Burrow. He traces the shell of Draco’s ear, touch light. “I promise.”

Draco sighs and momentarily closes his eyes.

Six months. Six months, and Harry is still amazed by how a touch can calm Draco down without a single word.

The wedding is small; only friends and family members are invited. Harry delivers a speech in his best robes. He’s practised it, yes, at Hermione’s insistence; it is weepy, yes, but perhaps under the influence of sparkling wine it has become weepier than he’d intended. Hermione’s eyes are glistening by the time he finishes. And then it is Ron’s turn, and he tells Harry to sod off because _everyone is supposed to be laughing, Harry! Not crying! Not what I told you at all!_

Laughter breaks out. Harry grins stupidly in his seat, cheeks warm. He is a little tipsy. Next to him, Draco finds his clammy hand on his lap. Squeezes. Harry smiles and squeezes back.

No one steals Ron and Hermione’s thunder. They dance in the middle of the gardens, under the starry sky, Ron in his best robes and Hermione in a dress of snowy white, flowers braided into her hair. They whisper into each other’s ears every now and then, laughing, arms around each other. The scattered crowd cheers and drinks more wine. The music floats in the air like the fragrance of summer flowers.

The song ceases, and another one starts. Harry finds Draco by a short crabapple tree, sipping wine with a faint smile. His cheeks are flushed; he is also a little tipsy.

“Dance with me?” Harry teases, taking the wineglass from his hands. Draco smiles and lets himself be pulled to the corner, where Harry wraps his arms around Draco’s waist and begins to sway them to the music.

“This is not how it is done,” Draco says, amused, “At all.”

“No one is dancing properly, anyway.” Harry leans in to whisper, “We can’t steal the thunder.”

Draco snorts. “Just an excuse to step on my feet, then.”

“You have no faith in me.”

“No,” Draco says, still smiling. As if he cannot help the curve at his lips. Bathed in golden lights in the dark, dressed in white robes hemmed with gold, Draco glows. Or perhaps it is the faint blush on his cheeks, the colour of a ripened peach. Or perhaps it is the way his face softens with his smile. Or the way his clear grey eyes catch the golden light like a star, fine lines trailing each corner and marking the folds of his mirth.

Six months, and Harry is still amazed by how Draco is right here in his arms.

“It’s like Christmas,” Draco whispers. “Remember?”

“Which part? The part where we pushed all the furniture away so we could dance,” Harry asks slowly, “or the part where we still bumped into them every two minutes?”

Draco laughs. “That was totally on you.”

“Yes.” Harry wants to kiss that smile. “I have clumsy feet.”

It was snowing, then. Christmas Eve, and they were both drunk. The wireless was playing something sappy in the background. It made Harry want to cry, so he pushed all the furniture to the side instead and pulled Draco into a silly waltz. Draco laughed, and indulged him, and they stepped on each other’s feet every other second, and at last they kissed and fell onto the couch together. Half-way through, the new cat they adopted interrupted them by squeezing in between and pushing her paws onto their mouths, meowing loudly, demanding attention.

_Key Lime! _Harry complained. Draco laughed and ruffled Harry’s hair.

Looking at Draco, Harry wants to go home. Now. His flat is no longer empty, no longer silent. Their mugs sit alongside each other in the cupboards, and on the couch Harry can close his eyes and find the indent where he always pushes his feet underneath Draco’s thighs, where Draco always tilts his head against the edge when he sits on the floor and lets Harry comb his hair. He no longer counts the cracks in the ceiling. Every morning he wakes to a soft snore beside him and occasionally, an insistent paw kneading his cheek. Every time a thunderstorm hits, he wraps them both in a blanket and Draco in his arms, and murmurs into Draco’s hair until the storm passes and they fall asleep to the lingering, pattering rain.

It fills him to the brim and he wants to cry again. So he kisses Draco instead. Draco hums and kisses back, hands clutching at his waist. They sway, not to the music anymore but to their own breaths. The world fades around him. Time ceases to exist. When he comes back to it, Ron is howling at them from the other side of the gardens.

“We’re throwing up here! Get your own wedding to be gross!”

Harry’s face burns. Draco laughs, loud and bright like stars in the night.

***

He dreams of the sunflowers again. A sea of gold, stretching over the hills and blending into the horizon. The sky is azure and soft, blue as if he can touch it if he reaches out. The air is warm; it is mid summer. The sunlight tickles his nose. Harry smiles and, scrunching his face so he doesn’t sneeze, he closes his eyes. In the middle of bright yellow petals, in the middle of brown plates framed by gold, he tilts his head. Embraces the sun like all the blooming flowers around him do.

On the bed, in his sleep, Draco pulls him close. Key Lime snuggles into the duvets and curls up between them, and falls asleep again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please support the author by clicking on the kudos button and leaving a comment below! ♥


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